Make No Mistake
by becauseklaine
Summary: Margaret Thatcher Dog's relationship with the Queen may have been "ruff", but that doesn't even begin to cover her relationship with Kurt Hummel.


A/N: So once I had finished this I had a very belated "too soon?!" where Margaret Thatcher was concerned. I hope this doesn't offend any Thatcher fans, I only wish her the greatest RIP! Moving on from that, I hope you enjoy all the humor with the mix of feelings~

Kurt hated the Margaret Thatcher dog.

He acknowledged that the gift, dating all the way back to the glory days of high school, was an ingenious gift idea—as most his gifts were. Years later, however, he resented the hell out of that adorable dog.

It started off simply enough, with no animosity between him and Maggie.

Kurt was off on an Ohio trip to visit his dad and Carole but Blaine couldn't come because he had a big test coming up. The first night apart, Blaine texted Kurt a picture of himself in bed with Maggie Thatcher. "Since you aren't here to snuggle, Maggie is taking your place," the caption read.

At the time, Kurt hadn't given the picture much thought. And with the phone sex that followed, it was understandable he had _other_ things on his mind.

But eventually, Maggie become a recurring appearance when Kurt was absent. Ever since then, the dog symbolized every late night at work, every trip away, every time he couldn't be at home with Blaine.

Logically, Kurt knew it wasn't the stuffed animal's fault when he wasn't home. Probably even more logically, he should have realized he was stressing out over a _stuffed dog_. But blaming a dog he hated was much easier than blaming Vogue, the job he loved, for missing the husband he loved.

As he climbed the ranks of Vogue, his hours climbed as well. He never failed to send Blaine texts throughout the day, but when Kurt got home with Blaine already in bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed his husband. Of course they spent every waking moment together that they could grasp, and the weekends were a haven for catching up from the week, conversationally _and_ sexually, of course, but it was never _enough_.

So when Kurt arrived home to find Maggie Thatcher in Blaine's arms instead of him, it felt like Margaret Thatcher herself was coming back from the dead and personally rubbing salt in Kurt's wounds.

Tonight was such another night when Kurt felt the sting of salt from the British lady he had formerly admired. He'd been stuck in a conference call about a particular shade of orange with Parisians until after 10 PM. He wasn't jealous of them, they'd had to wait up bright and early for the call—but he resented them, not for keeping him up late, but for keeping him from his husband.

By the time he'd caught a cab and made it home, Blaine's bedtime had long passed. He had rehearsals for a musical in the works every weekday, bright and early, so he simply couldn't wait up for Kurt.

Insert Maggie into the equation here.

Kurt slipped into the dim master bedroom, tiptoeing around the bed as quietly as possible. Blaine was lying on his side, facing Kurt's side of the bed. His arm was stretched across the space, the perfect invitation for Kurt to rest his head on, that is, if that _dumb _dog wasn't there.

While undressing for bed, Kurt had a showdown with the dog. Her British accent was full of sass that could rival Kurt's own in his head.

**_Maggie_**_: Who do you think you are, coming back in the middle of the night and then thinking you can just replace me? I didn't reserve this spot for you, honey._

**_Kurt_**_: Who do you think you are, sleeping with my husband? I bought you! You wouldn't be here without me, and this is how you repay me?_

**_Maggie_**_: What, did you buy me just so you could be a lousy husband? Why consult on sweaters all night when you could be lying next to this angel of a man?_

**_Kurt_**_: You cross me again, Maggie, and I won't hesitate to get on a plane and give you back to that carnival back with the other trashy stuffed animals where you belong!_

Around a couple insults later, Kurt realized he was running dialogue with an inanimate object in his head. It truly was Toy Story gone wrong. _Pull yourself together, Hummel._

Even with his mental discouragement, Kurt couldn't help a quiet "damn you" slipping out when he climbed into bed. He also may or may not have chucked the dog across the room, waiting to hear the satisfactory smack against the wall before settling next to Blaine.

"Mmf, Kur… whadyousay?" Blaine mumbled, barely managing to crack his eyes open.

"Only that I love you, of course." Kurt replied sweetly, kissing Blaine's temple. What Blaine didn't know—his husband was going crazy over a stuffed animal—wouldn't hurt him. "Big or little spoon?" Kurt asked, running his hands through Blaine's curls, half of which had been flattened through sleep in a very adorable way.

Blaine rolled to his other side in response, and Kurt shifted over to close the gap. His arm went around Blaine's side, and he held Blaine's hand in a light grip.

"Maggie Thatcher told me she's afraid you're going to beat her up."

"What'd you say?" Kurt asked, wondering if he'd even heard Blaine correctly. He was beginning to question if his brain even functioned at full capacity late at night—fighting with a stuffed dog, hearing his husband question him about said dog when he couldn't possible know about Kurt's illogical fixation!

Blaine lifted their conjoined hands together, lightly kissing the back of Kurt's hand. Kurt could feel Blaine's lips move when he answered, "Only that I love you." Kurt could also feel the smile breaking out on Blaine's face. He could picture the cheeky grin in his head perfectly.

Kurt burst out into laughter that was equal parts embarrassment and amusement.

"Of course."


End file.
